


Ziggurat

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Genre: Altered Mental States, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Steampunk, Yuletide, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Marquis captures Jules, he finds a way to escape, though his body remains trapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ziggurat

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Nicole DAnnais for Yuletide 2006. Thanks to elynross for the beta.

Once, Jules had loved to draw. He drew everything that came to mind: machines that moved through dirt as easily as boats sailed across water, people that lived on the moon or in the center of the earth, creatures that dwelt deep under water or on mysterious islands that no human had ever seen. He drew and thought and dreamed, imagining world upon world, future upon future, all of it good.

But now...now he can't think of anything nice. The Marquis demands that Jules draw, but all Jules can see are dozens of mice roaming throughout the labs, over the desks and perching on the equipment. A thick carpet of grey, brown, and black whenever they happen to congregate, and no one else seems to notice them.

The Marquis shoves the glass-and-copper tablet into Jules's hand. "Draw." A mouse sits up on the tablet, cocking its head and looking intently at Jules. A small, sleek mouse, grey, with dark, serious eyes. The kind of eyes that Phileas would have, if he were a mouse.

Phileas isn't a mouse, though. He's a--something. Jules can't find the words anymore.

The mouse scurries away as the Marquis orders him to draw again. Jules picks up the stylus and lays it against the glass. He doesn't find it unsettling when another mouse runs over his hands. He likes the mice. They aren't like the thick, heavy rats that come to his cell for the crumbs of hard bread and cheese that fall through his bound hands when he eats. The mice don't try to bite him; they seem to have little interest in him at all, outside of a casual curiosity in the world around them. They do mice things, and Jules likes that, likes their soft grey fur.

In Jules's mind, Phileas is grey. His suits are grey, and the silk shirts he wears are frequently silvery grey. Even his hair is tinted grey. Jules frowns and twitches at the sound the stylus makes as it scrapes over the glass. Phileas isn't a mouse, though, not even the king of mice. Phileas is more like a wolf, or one of the big cats.

Before he fell in with Phileas and Rebecca, he lived in a cheap Parisian garret, as a proper writer should, and he'd had to chase both mice and rats out of his studio on more than one occasion. He'd even gone so far as to borrow a cat, to try and eradicate the creatures once and for all.

Tiredly Jules puts the final touches on the drawing and leans back against the chair, feeling its solid surface behind his head and taking some comfort from that. No, mice, with their twitch of fur and feet, or the brush of a tail across his skin--those things don't bother him at all.

What bothers him is that sometimes, the mice glow green. He tells Phileas about it, and Phileas just shakes his head. "There are no mice on the Aurora, you know." He gestures around the room in which they sit, at the dark walls and the beautiful carpeting on the floor, not a mouse in sight. It all gleams brightly in the light, and Jules can see Phileas's pride in owning her. The Aurora is a marvelous airship. "Why don't you draw her? Then you won't have to worry about the damned glowing mice."

Laughing, Jules props his feet up on the chair. Passepartout grimaces, but Jules ignores it and draws. He is completely absorbed in recreating the Aurora, taking in all of the details and recreating it with the scratchy sound of pen-and-ink against paper.

At last, Phileas lays his hand on Jules shoulder. "Splendid work, Jules," he says. "It's beautiful."

The picture etched on the glass isn't exactly the future, but the Marquis doesn't seem to care. He slips it out of Jules's hands, carrying it over to one of the large grey machines that squats around the lab. He shoves it onto a table, twists a huge dial, and the thing huffs and puffs with steam power. Pressing several buttons in rapid succession, a dim blue light appears on the wall displaying an image so detailed it looks like you could reach out and stroke the railing.

It's the Aurora, detailed right down to Passepartout at the helm.

"Hmmph," The Marquis says, fiddling with the machine, as the image snaps into focus. "Ah, there." The Marquis beams at Jules, ruffling his hair. "It's a good start."

Jules blinks, his mind fuzzy. Phileas and the mice are nowhere to be seen.

***

Jules isn't sure how long he stays in his cell this time. He thinks he had a couple of days to recover between sessions, but it feels like no time at all before the Marquis and his men arrive again. Everything is rough against his skin, and they have to pull off his shirt and shoes to add more wires; at least they allow him his pants, and with them, a portion of his dignity.

He hates the feel of his body right now, oil-slick to the touch, and Jules is afraid he's going to start glowing, too. He grits his teeth and tries to push himself upright, but the Marquis's men hold him down. Even that brings pain, his temples throbbing, and he hasn't yet been hooked up to one of the Marquis's infernal machines.

"This will lay open your mind," the Marquis says, twisting copper wire onto a silver headband that he lashes to Jules's head. "Everything you think will be projected up there." He gestures to the wall of the laboratory, where a large white curtain has been hung. "We had to make some adjustments, based on your last exposure, but I believe that this will provide the insight that the League is seeking."

Jules laughs, tries to tell them he doesn't know anything, but the Marquis merely pats his hand condescendingly. "I could lie and tell you that if you don't struggle, it won't hurt as much. But really, no matter what you do, it's going to hurt a lot."

And It does. Soon, Jules's throat hurts from screaming. He has a vague memory of something from his childhood being displayed--a birthday, and the present of a book--just to prove that the technology works. Then they demand more, and finally Jules acquiesces, just to get the pain to end, drawing with his mind, rather than his hands. The images on the wall are indistinct compared with the images in his head; the Marquis hands him the sketchglass so he can capture all the detail. Jules agrees, once the Marquis assures him that machine will be turned off once he is done.

The sketch doesn't have the life of his first picture, though. This one is pale and dead, a frozen memory. Still, the Marquis is pleased.

"We'll do the rest once the Count arrives," the Marquis says. "It's a pity the nerves are so sensitive," he says to someone out of Jules's line of sight. "I would hate to burn him out before Count Gregory had a chance to review the experiment."

The drugs are still making him twist and shudder as they throw him back in the pit.

Despair wells up within him. His head hurts, his hands and feet ache, and he's utterly exhausted. He curls up against the wall as tight as he can, and then he hears them--the rats. Their nails clicking against stone and dirt, the high pitched sounds they make as they talk to each other. Jules shivers anew, crawling as far away from the sounds as he can, but there is only so far he can go in his cell. If only he had someplace to hide from them, to tear away--

"Jules." Phileas crouches down next to him, laying his hand on Jules's thigh. "Wake up."

"Sorry." Jules rubs his hands over his face, blinking in the light. He glances around his room on the Aurora, but he doesn't see a clock. "I must have dozed off."

"You most certainly did." Phileas hold out his hand, and Jules grabs on, letting himself be pulled up. "Passepartout has been working all day on his chestnut stuffing. He insists that if we're late, it will be ruined."

Now that Phileas mentions it, Jules can smell the wonderful aroma of goose with chestnut stuffing, and the heavy scent of bread pudding, as well. "Smells delicious."

"Should be." Phileas looks Jules over appraisingly, and tugs at his shirt collar, straightening it. Jules leans into his touch, and Phileas presses a quick kiss against his throat. "Passepartout will never forgive us if we ruin his stuffing."

Jules doesn't care. He feels warm and heavy, content; his body is refreshed from his nap, and Phileas's breath spills over him, his hands strong against Jules's waist. He closes his eyes, not yet ready to go out and see the rest of the world, wanting to imprint this on his memory. Phileas is so closed-off in public; it's rare that he lets his guard down like this, lets himself enjoy Jules's company. He can't imaging a better moment that this.

When he opens his eyes, the Aurora is gone. The cold and the dark seep into him, and his body aches from both the drugs and whatever it was the machine did to him while he was strapped into it. Bread and cheese have been left for him on a plate on the cell floor, but Jules is too weak to stand. He pushes himself out of the mud he is lying in, but it's so hard; he can barely lift his head anymore. He manages to get up onto his hands and knees, and crawls across the floor until he can reach it. Jules wraps his arms around his knees as he tries to eat, shivering alone in the dark.

He hopes that everyone on the Aurora is safe.

***

Jules no longer cares about how much time has passed. At least when the Marquis puts him in the machine, he has visions of friends and his other life, before he was imprisoned here. He knows it's all illusion, fever dreams from the drugs and the machine, but he would cling to anything that could erase the pain and loneliness of being here, no matter how short a time it lasts.

"Well?" he snarls, thrusting his arm out for the Marquis's assistant. "Get on with it."

The Marquis is surprised, but nods at the assistant to do as Jules says. It isn't long before he has Jules wired to the machine, the sketchglass on his lap, stylus in his hand. Each time it is easier for Jules to slip away from the laboratory, to find his way back to his memory of the Aurora and Phileas.

The Aurora is moored in a neighboring valley. Phileas lays on the grass beside him, stretched out in the dying sunlight, as naked as Jules himself. Plucking a blade of grass from beside the lunch hamper, Jules uses it to trace the muscles of Phileas's abdomen, down to where the hair curls around his flaccid cock.

It has been a gorgeous day, and Jules leans over, licking the salt from Phileas's skin, waiting for the sun to set. A field of green grass and a gentle wind make this the perfect summer's day.

At last, Phileas rolls over, reaching for Jules, kissing him eagerly, his reserve forgotten in this moment of passion. Jules cries out as Phileas prepares him and takes him, but it's good, so good. He never wants to leave.

At last, the stars emerge above them, and Phileas says, "It's time to go."

Jules is shaking. "Don't make me go back," he whispers. "Please, let me stay." He looks at Phileas who has gathered their clothes together, and wraps his hand around Phileas's wrist. "Let me stay here, with you."

"Why would you want to stay?" Phileas hesitantly lays his hand against Jules's cheek.

"It is the only time I ever get to see you. To _be_ with you."

"But it's not me. It's only a dream of me," Phileas says gently. "What if I promise you this in real life?"

Jules can't stop the strangled noise that leaps from his throat. "As if you would ever care for me." He turns his face away, and it's all gone, the walls of his cell are back.

"Jules, I'm here." Phileas is still there, and Jules blinks in confusion. "And I do care," Phileas says as he wraps his arms around Jules and lifts him from the cell floor. "I promise to show you how much once you are well," Phileas murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Letting his head fall against Phileas's chest, Jules lets out a soft sigh, his head throbbing, almost unwilling to believe that it is over. "I _will_ hold you to that."

"I won't go back on my promise." Phileas carries him through the laboratory, the machines broken and smoking. Jules sees the Marquis's assistant on the floor, but not the Marquis himself. He hopes the Marquis didn't escape.

Once out of the laboratory and into the carriage, Phileas gently settles Jules against his shoulder for the trip back to the Aurora, where the prospect of warmth, food, and love await. "You're safe now," he says, brushing Jules's hair out of his face.

His fingers entwined with Phileas's, Jules finally, peacefully sleeps.

THE END  



End file.
